


Burn the Ashes

by eosaurora13



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Amnesia, Infinity Stones, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-08 01:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14683485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eosaurora13/pseuds/eosaurora13
Summary: In a timeline where Captain America dies on the helicarrier, the Winter Soldier is offered a chance to undo it. Change the past. But the next thing he remembers isn't going back in time. It's the future he went back to create and he has to learn to survive in a world where the Winter Soldier never existed, leaving Steve and the rest of the Avengers to piece together what happened from the few clues they have.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who was following the original, this is a rewrite. The basic premise hasn't changed but that's about it.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.” This target had known him. This target had named him, a name that tugged at something locked away and buried in the back of his mind, but the static dancing through his memories shrouded its meaning entirely. Some part of him begged to dive through the harsh noise and fuzzy snow to find that meaning, to understand the actions of this man who defied all expectations, who went against the actions he anticipated from the people _they_ sent him after. Every person faced death differently – the ones he vaguely remembered all begged for life. Nothing caused him to falter. To fail a mission because of a few words spoken by one man? They would torture him…or worse.

“I’m with you til the end of the line…” Those words had cut through everything, shining a painfully blinding light on a memory, a moment from so long ago. He could only stare in shock, mouth hanging loose in horror, as the undercarriage of the helicarrier shuddered under an impact and fell away, taking his target with it.

The space where his target had been ate into the very fiber of his being, the desire to understand who the man was and what he meant setting his blood on fire. A hollowed out hole settled deep in his chest, wrapped its cold tentacles around his heart as he watched the man, his mission fall hundreds of feet and slam into the water below. Without any manner of comprehension, the action stemming from an instinct borne of desperation, he let go of the burning wreckage of the final of three massive helicarriers and followed his target into the water.

Even as the water battered his injured body and his lungs screamed as he dove into its depths, the resounding cry of _save him_ forced him onward. He latched his metal finger through some loop in the man’s suit, dragged him upward toward air and to shore, pain shooting up his broken arm with each stroke. 

He let the man’s body fall as he dragged him into shallow water, his metal arm shooting electrical signals to his brain that might mimic pain if he let them. Out of an exhaustion worse than any he could remember, he collapsed to his knees in the muddy water beside his target. For a brief moment, he allowed himself time to rest and suck in mouthfuls of air, easing the squeezing pain around his lungs. A voice in his head prodded him to see if his target was still breathing, if the mission still needed to be completed, or if the fall had finished what he hadn’t.

A moment passed.

Then another.

As he watched for any signs of life, the rise and fall of his chest, the soft exhalation of labored breathing, the coughing up of water as the body rejected drowning, nothing happened. The hole in his chest grew cold as desperation gripped him. The voice telling him this was meant to be, that his mission was complete, only fueled the rage that rapidly spread through his limbs and propelled him to action. Pushing aside the discomfort of the water seeping through on his knees and the mud he had churned up with his hasty motion, he tried everything he knew to bring his target back from death.

But the frantic mouth to mouth and rough, almost angry chest compressions did nothing. The man beneath him didn’t miraculously start breathing because of his ministrations. A quick glance down at the bullet holes he had inflicted had stopped gushing blood, the heart behind them had stopped pumping from a lack of oxygen.

His target was dead.

He sat back on his heels, utterly unable to hold back the hopelessness and despair that washed over him at the realization. As if his body remembered what he no longer could, it reacted viscerally, brutally, violently. He scrambled backwards, toward solid ground, as dry heaves wracked his body, and he could not stop the sobs that escaped.

This was not meant to happen, that much he knew. His target was not supposed to die. But despite how hard he racked his brain, how many aspects of his training he rapidly filed through, he found nothing that could undo what he had done. 

He crawled back into the water and finished dragging the both of them to shore. He couldn’t leave him there to sink into the water with the helicarriers he had died destroying. The acrid stench of burning fuel and flesh reached his nose even here and he stared across the water at the destruction as he cradled his target’s body in his lap.

Unable to let go.

The afternoon slowly faded into dusk and still he sat there. A corrupted vigil for someone he couldn’t remember, someone he didn’t know, but that his body refused to let go. Some small part of his mind that didn’t connect with the rest of him took over and held him there. It refused to let him give up. 

_Because he wouldn’t have given up on you_ , a weak voice whispered. The thought stabbed him through the heart, doubling him over in pain. “Shut up!” he gritted out as if his mind would listen – it never did.

How long he might have stayed there, he never found out. Voices, softer than a breath of wind, carried from further up the shore. Decades of training overrode any other considerations. He could never be seen. He could never be found. The ache at the lost of contact with his target threatened to consume him even as he limped into the undergrowth. 

The sensible course of action would be to retreat to the nearest safehouse and contact them, but the same part of his mind that kept him on that shoreline kept him locked in place, hidden from view as a group of people approached.

“Steve!” one of them cried out, a man also from the carrier. “Steve,” he tried again as he knelt in the dirt and felt for a pulse. He turned to his companions, two women and another man, and shook his head almost imperceptibly. They stood back, their faces a mix of shock and grief.

The other man muttered, “Shit,” as a team of medics ran up and loaded Steve onto a stretcher. One of the women, he recognized her as one of his targets – another failure, stormed away, purposefully in the opposite direction from the medics. The first man glanced between Steve’s body being carried away and the woman before jogging after her, calling out her name as he ran.

“What about Barnes?” the remaining woman asked. “None of the teams have found any evidence of him.”

The man hidden in the brush froze at the name, the same name his target – Steve – had called him. It yanked on a loose thread, trying to unravel the tenuous grip he had on reality.

“Oh, he was here,” came the response.

“You don’t think he’s dead.”

The man arched an eyebrow, his answer apparent.

The woman shook her head. “You’re not concerned? He came for you once.”

“On Pierce’s command. I highly doubt he’ll be giving anyone directions anytime soon.”

“There are still a lot of pockets of loyal Hydra members. Any one of them could give that command and with Steve gone – “

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He sighed and turned to look out over the water and what was left of SHIELD. “For now, the world needs to know that it lost a good man today.”

With that, they walked back up the shore, neither knowing that their entire conversation was witnessed.

The shoreline now vacant, there was no reason for him to stay. The fate of his targets was no longer in his hands and, if what they said was accurate, no one was left to care. It had all burned.

But where did that leave him? Three failed objectives, none of which he tried to complete as they practically offered themselves to him, and the one success damaged him beyond coherent thought. If _they_ were gone, what did any of it matter? 

_Why did Steve have to die?_

It wasn’t a question he had an answer to.

It wouldn’t be long until the entire area was sectioned off and crawling with local and federal law enforcement. If he stayed much longer, he knew he wouldn’t be able to escape. With one last, longing look at the empty shore, he trudged into the woods toward the city lights glowing against the encroaching bank of storm clouds.

* * *

Washington, D.C. was unkind to those who did not know its streets. Its animosity grew in the nighttime storm, as if it thrived on the darkness and thunder. It was unkinder still to the likes of him, lost both in body and mind. The brilliant lights flashing against the backdrop of torrential rain were unrelenting and unforgiving. 

Though there were few people still out, he could not risk being seen or recognized. He kept to back alleys and side streets, letting the darkness hide him from prying eyes. In that darkness, he stripped off his armor, threw it aside, and covered his arm as best he could. His knife he held onto, the one weapon he could consider his, that he could use if necessary. Any other weapon he might have had was lost in the river, drowned with the helicarriers.

He finally found an overhang that blocked most of the rain, except the occasional burst that blew in with a strong wind gust. Collapsing to the ground, his body pushed to its limit, he pressed against the wall as if it could protect him from the world. The night passed slowly, nothing to distract him from his thoughts or his physical misery but the wind and rain and the occasional sounds of the city around him.

By morning, his clothes were soaked through and it took more strength than he liked to move his metal arm. No part of him was warm, even the parts stuck against the wall. The slightest breeze sent fits of shivers through his entire body. If he didn’t find shelter soon, he would succumb to hypothermia.

The opening of a door across the alley startled him fully awake. He held perfectly still as a young woman appeared, rolling down the short ramp attached to the building in her wheelchair. She tossed a bag of garbage into the dumpster and turned to go back inside when her eyes fell on him.

For a tense moment, neither moved. He gripped the knife tightly where it rested in its sheath, his body tensing if she made any move. Then she blinked, and the moment faded. She rolled up the ramp and softly clicked the door shut behind her without saying a single word. His grip on the knife loosened and he let out a ragged breath.

The door opened again. An older woman, her hair faded to white and her skin dark and wrinkled from decades of work in the sun, walked outside, supporting her weight on a cane with a glowing, green stone embedded in its handle. Her eyes, when they met his, were bright and full of wit and intelligence. “My granddaughter told me you were out here,” she said, her voice scratched and worn, a record that had been played too many times. “It’s not often we have visitors grace our small alley.” She lowered herself to the ground and waited for him to react.

He slid his hand back toward his knife.

“I may be old, son, but don’t think for a minute you’ll get anywhere with that.” She watched him as he let his arm drop and kept his hands in view. “Much obliged.” 

As they sat there, he felt that she was reading him like an open book, every secret that he knew and every one that he didn’t know laid bare for this stranger to learn. And he couldn’t hide from that gaze.

“Tell you what, come inside and we’ll find you some dry clothes, get some warm food in you, and see what we can do about those injuries of yours.” She pushed herself up, her muscles straining with the effort, and she retreated inside.

The door stood open, a tantalizing invitation. His mind screamed a warning that this was one of _their_ traps, that this was the start of his punishment for his failures these last few days. 

“The porridge is getting cold!” 

Something in the woman’s voice struck a chord, reminded him of something that happened so very long ago. _Stuffing newspaper into shoes…._

He shook the memory off and struggled to his feet. He swayed with each step, catching himself on the door to keep himself from falling.

The warmth hit him first. Pain swiftly followed as blood and feeling returned to his extremities. He leaned against the wall and took a steadying breath. He found himself in a small office, an even smaller desk tucked in one corner with a laptop open on it. Bookcases covered the free wall space, stacked full of books. 

“Close the door, please. I guarantee you weren’t raised in a barn.” 

He jumped at the old woman’s sudden appearance. He hadn’t heard her approach despite her cane and shuffling gait. Swallowing his fear, he did as she bid him.

She led him out of the office, down a narrow hall and into a small kitchen. The other woman sat at the table, pouring over a book, a cup of coffee sitting beside her hand – forgotten. 

“Aurora,” the older woman said.

Aurora blinked, returning to reality with some issue. Whatever she was reading had drawn her far away.

“I’m going to find our guest some clothes and towel. Get him some food and see what you can do about his arm.”

Aurora nodded. “Yes, Gran.” As the older woman, apparently Aurora’s grandmother, walked away, Aurora eased her wheelchair from the table. Only in this confined space did he notice the chair hovered instead of rolled. She floated to the stove and scooped out a bowl of porridge. “I apologize for my Gran’s cooking. It can be a bit –,“ she struggled to find the right word, “- bland?” 

He took the bowl from her but had no intent to eat it. At the very least, it could be poisoned. In their position, that’s what he would have done.

Aurora scooped herself a bowl, adding fruit and spices. “My Gran wouldn’t try to kill you,” she said. “And despite her not being the best cook, I’ve still here.”

“I heard that, young lady!”

Aurora grimaced. She mouthed, “Oops,” as she returned to her spot at the table.

Something in their interactions, so normal and familiar, relaxed him. Though the fear that they belonged to _them_ remained, some instinct told him they weren’t. Neither did they act like they knew who he was or what he had done. 

If they did…

He ate a spoonful of the offered food while standing in the corner. Aurora’s assessment of her grandmother’s cooking was unfortunately accurate. Still, it was food and it settled his roiling stomach. He waited to see if anything happened before eating another bite. 

Aurora’s grandmother returned with clothes and a towel draped over one arm. “Finish that, if you can tolerate my cooking,” she shot a look at Aurora, who grinned, “and we’ll get you out of those clothes. You’re shivering so badly you’re getting water all over my floor.”

He followed her into a bathroom once he’d scarfed down the entire bowl. 

She motioned him inside, careful not to touch him. As if she knew…something. She handed him the towel and laid the clothes on the counter. “Let Aurora look at you when you’re done. Your arm is probably dislocated.” She paused, considering her words. “You’ll be safe here, do not doubt that.” 

He gaped at her as she walked away, leaving him to his own devices. He closed the door and got to work; he could ponder her words later. Despite the pain and stiffness, it was a gift to let those soaking wet clothes drop to the floor. Stripping off the armor and stepping into civilian clothes felt like changing identities but he couldn’t erase the past few days or what he’d done. 

The man that stared at him from the mirror was not someone he recognized. Hair hanging limply in wet strands framed a haunted face. There was no life in those eyes, no soul. Who was he? Why had his target – Steve – so desperately called him Bucky? Was that who he was – could he ever be that man again when Steve was dead?

He wasn’t aware of walking back to the kitchen or of letting Aurora set his dislocated shoulder and patch up his myriad of other wounds. The only thought that crossed his mind amid the cacophony of questions and too loud sense of _lost_ was that her hands worked with the skill of someone accustomed to treating injuries and they held far more tenderness than those that had repaired him in the past. 

They set up a cot in the back office, blocking the back door. He sat on it, content to give his body time to heal. Aurora had returned to her books, but something prompted him to call out to her grandmother. “Why are you doing this?” 

She regarded him gently. “Because I owe a life debt, James Buchanan Barnes.”

He flinched at the name.

She smiled, a sad little thing that spoke to the sorrows she’d seen and connected to those he had inflicted. “Get some rest. We’ll speak when you’re rested.”

Rest? When was the last time he’d slept? All he remembered was ice – he couldn’t go back to the ice. 

He sat on the cot for a long time, simply staring at the wall in front of him. Finally, he laid down and curled in on himself. When sleep came, it crept up on him, a silent and deadly predator. Away from the cryostasis chamber for the first time in memory, his brain started the slow healing process. Having not fallen into that warm embrace in years, hadn’t dreamed in years, it fought to make up for lost time.

But the dreams, when they came, were anything but pleasant. Flashes of torture, of murder, of Steve, that his brain wouldn’t process while he was awake danced across his subconsciousness. He woke with a cry, the image of a train in the mountains and the feeling of falling as Steve cried out for him sitting at the forefront of his mind.

He slid to the floor, burying his head in his hands.

A muffled crash from the front of the building drew his attention. His head snapped up, every instinct screaming at him to run.

“Aurora, hold them off as long as you can!”

The last he heard from Aurora was the hum of her chair as she followed her grandmother’s orders. 

The older woman stumbled into the office and locked the door behind her. “We only have a moment.”

“What’s happening?” he asked. He was afraid he already knew the answer.

“The monsters have found you.” 

He leapt into action, dragging the cot away from the door.

She stopped him, laying a hand on his arm. “You can run today but you will be running from them the rest of your life.”

“What else can I do?” There was nowhere for him to go, no one for him to turn to. Not anymore.

She rapped her cane against the wall and popped the green stone out. Ancient and unearthly, smaller than a pearl, it glowed in her hand. “I think you know that Captain Rogers was not meant to die by your hand. I can’t erase what happened, not for you, but this has the power to undo it. If you’ll take it.”

Would he? What would he give to stem the tide of grief and guilt, of the voices from his past screaming from behind an impenetrable veil?

Gunshots rang out, followed by a soft thud of dead weight.

She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. “What will you do? Will you run – will you let all of our deaths be in vain? Or will you change everything?”

His ears picked up the soft footfalls of stealth soldiers as they crept down the hall. Aurora had failed, the image of her bullet-riddled body too much to handle. “What happens to you?”

The old woman smiled, exuding a peace that he could only envy. “If you succeed, none of this will have happened. Aurora and I will be having a nice, quiet breakfast.” She held the stone out. “Remember me, James Buchanan Barnes. Remember that Brigitte Hofmann paid her debt.”

His hand touched the stone, searing pain coursed through his body, then everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

He opened his eyes, only to shut them almost immediately. The harsh, fluorescent light above him, though dimmed, was still too bright to look at. His eyelids stuck to his eyes, as if he hadn’t opened them in years.

He struggled to remember where he was or how he’d gotten here. The last thing he clearly remembered was the green stone and the old woman, Brigitte, and her granddaughter giving their lives for him. But, if that were the case, where were they? Had it been for nothing? Did _they_ have him?

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, fueling the reconnection between his brain and his body. He flexed his fingers and toes, only to find his arm wasn’t connected. It had been heavily damaged – were they repairing it? He glanced at his shoulder and blinked in shock. He had grown so intimately familiar with the vicious scarring where metal met flesh but the scars he saw were different, as if inflicted by something different – _he screamed as the bulkhead collapsed, crushing his arm under its weight_ ¬– no, that wasn’t right. He’d fallen from a train. Hadn’t he?

What had happened? What was the green stone?

He tried to sit up, but a tangle of cords held him down, yanking on his arm, his throat, his chest. His body protested even that slight movement and he collapsed back into the bed with a groan.

Resigned to his condition for the moment, he took stock of his surroundings. Maybe that would give him some clue as to what happened and where they’d taken him. The air was cool and smelled clean to the point of sterility. Underneath that, he could detect a whiff of alcohol but unfortunately not the good drinking kind. He really could use a drink.

He paused – where had that thought come from? When had he last had a drink? Did he remember what alcohol tasted like?

His room was mostly quiet, the hum of the machines around him and a regular beeping the only sounds he heard. When he focused on the beeps, he could match them to his heart rate. He assumed he was in a hospital, or something similar. The technology wasn’t too far from what he last remembered so he hadn’t missed a long swath of time. 

He tried to listen for sounds of people – footsteps, voices, anything – but heard nothing. If _they_ had him, they wouldn’t have left him alone. He relaxed microscopically. They might be searching for him but, for the moment, they somehow hadn’t found him.

He dozed, half in and half out of consciousness, until he heard someone walking towards his room, their footsteps growing louder.

A man walked into the room. Wearing a white coat that hung to his knees and thin-rimmed glasses that sat slightly askew on his nose, he seemed the type of person to make himself as small as possible and to hide at the outskirts of a crowd. Nothing about him set off warning bells.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” he said. “We were beginning to think you weren’t going to wake up.”

He stared at the unassuming man and waited. 

“I’m Dr. Bruce Banner. I’ve been working your case for the past year. Dr. Callahan is the other lead doctor on your case but she’s out on assignment at the moment.” He approached the bed, checking the machines and typing quickly into the computer beside them. “Let’s get this tube out of your throat.”

The drag of the tube against his throat was the most uncomfortable feeling he could remember, and he coughed uncontrollably once it was out. Banner handed him a cup of water, instructing him to sip on it.

He closed his eyes as the water eased the irritation. “Where am I?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. He noticed how thick his accent was, perfect Brooklyn. How had that slipped out without his noticing?

Banner made no comment on the accent. Strange, that he would expect it. “You’re in upstate New York, at a private facility owned by Tony Stark.”

Stark. He knew that name. How did he know that name? A target, or someone, like Steve, from his past? _He waited for the car to crash before emerging from his hiding place. The people in the car didn’t matter – he killed them without a second thought. They begged, called him by name…_

He shook the memory away. “What happened?” Again, he only noticed the accent as an afterthought. That it continued to happen disturbed him. Why could he not control it? It was one of the first lessons _they_ had taught him. If they discovered he could no longer put it into practice…

Banner glanced over from the computer, his face pinched with concern. “You were in a plane crash,” he said slowly. “Do you not remember?”

Remember? He could barely remember his own name. He couldn’t, for the life of him, recall what plane crash he was supposed to have been in. All he could remember was Steve falling from the helicarrier, Steve’s lifeless body being carried away as he could only watch. The thought that he hadn’t fulfilled the task Brigitte had given him was so abhorrent that he pushed it violently aside.

His lack of answer apparently confirmed whatever concerns Banner had. “Friday, can you get a message to Dr. Callahan?”

A disembodied female voice replied, “I can try, Dr. Banner. There’s a good chance she won’t see it until she gets back.”

“Worth a shot,” he retorted. “Make sure it’s encrypted.”

The voice huffed. “That goes without saying, sir.”

Banner glanced at him. “And see if you can get ahold of Cap.”

Cap – that was supposed to meaning something to him. Why did it sound so familiar?

The voice paused for a beat, her tone softening. “Of course.”

Banner rolled a stool over and sat down. “That voice was Friday. She’s the AI that runs the place. If you need anything, just ask her.”

He nodded, clamping down on the curiosity that bubbled up at the existence of artificial intelligence. It was supposed to be just theory.

“Can you tell me your name?”

He wanted to scream that he didn’t have a name. The only name he knew was the one Steve had given him. Was that what Banner expected? “Bucky,” he replied. “Bucky Barnes.” It was all he had.

Banner nodded. “What’s your date of birth?”

He could only stare at Banner blankly. This was important. Why couldn’t he remember? The machine beside him beeped faster. 

Friday said, “You should probably let him rest, sir. His body is still recovering and subjecting him to stress will only delay that.”

“Why can’t I remember?” he asked, giving voice to the confusion muddling his thoughts, hoping beyond hope this man might have answers.

Banner hesitated. “I can grant you access to the official file, but you probably need to here from Cap. He was there with you.”

He tried to reconcile what Banner was saying with what he knew had happened. The only people with him at the “end” were Aurora and Brigitte. But this was the second mention of this “Cap” and some small voice in the back of his mind agreed that this person had to be important.

“Rest, Sergeant. We’ll let you know when we’ve made contact.” He pushed the stool back and walked to the door. “Friday, if you want to provide encrypted access to the Internet so he can catch up, you can.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Friday replied.

Left alone in the room with the AI, he rolled over and stared at the machine beeping beside him. He watched the jagged line of the EKG reading bounce across the screen. Sergeant. That’s what Banner called him. 

_…he strode over and helped Steve up, brushing the dirt off his shoulders. “Sometimes I think you like getting punched.”_

_Steve wiped the blood from his nose. “I had him on the ropes.”_

Steve had asked him about his orders. Sergeant Barnes of the 107th, that’s what he’d told him.

He closed his eyes and evened out his breathing.

“Sergeant Barnes, would you like me to dim the lights?”

His eyes snapped open at Friday’s question, instinct driving him to find the source of the noise. For a moment, his heart rate skyrocketed until he placed the voice. “That’d be great,” he whispered.

“My apologies for startling you,” Friday said. “I will endeavor not to do so again.”

He huffed a laugh, startling himself further. 

“Something amusing?”

He struggled to put into words what he found so funny or how amazing it felt to laugh after so many years. “Not really.”

Friday hummed in response. “Rest well then.”

He didn’t sleep, his body was too tense, but he took the time to breathe and rest. 

When he opened his eyes again, Banner had returned, quietly recording readings from the machines, tapping a pen against his glasses absentmindedly. 

He wanted to ask what was wrong, to know all that these doctors did about what had happened to him, but the fear of saying the wrong thing kept him silent. He had too many muddled memories of pain and torture and ice.

“Dr. Banner, I contacted Dr. Callahan. She will be unable to return until the end of the month but will try to maintain more consistent line of communication now that Sergeant Barnes is awake.”

“Thanks,” Banner muttered. “Did she have any pearls of wisdom?”

“She said that some memory loss is to be expected after head trauma.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. Head trauma? Putting the pieces together, he could assume that the trauma was a result of the plane crash he had supposedly been in. Was that why the scars on his arm were different too? 

What was this place? A simulation designed to punish him? Or had that green stone done something?

“This isn’t _some_ memory loss,” Banner retorted. “I would expect him to be unable to remember the event itself – that’s fairly normal. But his birthday? I’m concerned this is more serious.”

Another voice came over the room’s intercom. “Before you panic, Doc, let me walk you through the work-up you need to do.”

He felt the world turn upside down. Though he’d only heard her voice briefly, he would recognize it anywhere. Somehow, Aurora was still alive – it shouldn’t be possible. 

“Dr. Callahan, I hope your assignment is treating you well.”

A laugh. “About as well as can be expected. I assume Friday told you I’d be back in a few weeks?”

“Of course, ma’am,” Friday interjected.

“Easy, I didn’t mean any offense.”

He could imagine Friday shrugging. “No offense was taken.”

The AI was about as unflappable an entity as he had ever encountered.

Aurora – Dr. Callahan – laid out a detailed battery of tests for Banner to perform and provide her the results to. Only then, she said, could she have a better sense of what was going on. “I assume you’ve told Rogers?” she added, almost as an afterthought.

Rogers – was this “Cap” or someone different? He tried to shake the feeling that he was meant to know but his brain refused to work.

Friday replied, “He’s still out of contact range. I’m trying on regular intervals.”

Callahan sighed. “When you do, let me know.” Someone else’s voice came over the call, muffled like she was covering the receiver. “I need to go but I’ll stay in touch.”

Banner turned to him. “We inspire confidence, I know.” He logged out of the computer. “Are you up for a couple of tests? Maybe we can figure out what’s going on.”

He nodded.

Over the next two days, Banner ran the full gamut of tests Callahan had suggested. With Friday’s help, they scanned his brain multiple ways. They tested his blood. Banner asked him a long series of general and personal questions, some of which he could answer but most he couldn’t. The personal questions kept triggering flashes of memory, but some overlapped on top of each other to the point he could no longer tell which was true.

As they finished each test, Banner disconnected certain hookups and lines, removing IVs and feeding tubes, until he was completely free from wires and machines. Weak beyond imagining but no longer hindered. It was liberating.

Banner did most of the talking when he wasn’t asking questions, providing valuable information about what he’d missed: politics, science, culture, anything Banner thought was important for him to know. Seventy years, Friday said he’d missed. 

At times, he was inclined to believe it, even though it more often seemed that far less time had passed. 

Another couple of days and Banner deemed him fit enough to move to a private room, one equipped with the ability to constantly monitor brain activity and a state-of-the-art communications array. Since he had no belongings to speak of, except for the clothes that miraculously appeared in his wardrobe one night, the room remained sparsely decorated but it was open, airy even, with a large window overlooking the courtyard and the rest of the complex.

As he attempted to settle in, Banner explained that each room was part of a suite that connected to a larger private sitting area and kitchen. 

He wanted to spend days marveling at the technology on display around him. Until they figured out what was going on with his memories, he doubted he could go anywhere. 

Not that he had anywhere else to go, and he couldn’t be certain that _they_ weren’t searching for him. This place, and these people, offered him some manner of protection. Whoever they were.

He walked to the window and ¬nodded down at the symbol on the outside of the building after they returned to his room from yet another test. “What’s that for?”

Banner followed his gaze to the giant A. “The Avengers,” he said simply. “A group established to protect the earth from any and all threats.”

“What threats?”

Friday piped up. “The battle for New York happened almost five years ago when the Asgardian known as Loki led an army of Chitauri in an attack on the city.”

Banner coughed and shifted uncomfortably. “That was certainly one of them.”

Friday launched into the official report of the days leading up to the battle and of the battle itself. Banner filled in a couple of details, details only a person who had been there could know. Bucky couldn’t reconcile this unassuming man with anyone involved in what Friday described any better than he could believing that Norse Gods and aliens existed.

“The Tesseract – “

“The what?” he asked. The word sounded so familiar, but he couldn’t quite place where he’d heard it before.

Banner stepped in. “The Tesseract was the weapon Loki used to open a portal into Chitauri space.”  
He shook his head. “I know it.”

“HYDRA’s founder did uncover the Tesseract in a town in Germany during World War II,” Friday supplied helpfully. “It was on the – ”

_The Red Skull_ – what was his real name? – _stumbled to his feet as the jet rocked. “What have you done?” he demanded._

_Steve crawled over to him, shielded him with his body. “Stay down, Buck.”_

_They watched in horror as Red Skull grabbed the Tesseract where it had fallen from its berth and the heavens opened within the plane…_

He rubbed his temple, the memory sparking a massive headache, stabbing needles behind his eyes. 

Friday’s voice cut through the static that was threatening to overwhelm him. “Sergeant, are you all right?” 

Banner helped him to the bed before his legs gave out. “What did you remember?”

He couldn’t figure out what he saw. He remembered _they_ had a superweapon, something they used to power all of their weapons of war, but he hadn’t seen it. The train…he’d fallen from the train before they could get to Red Skull. 

How could both have happened?

But Banner was still waiting for a response and he couldn’t say anything but the truth. He could only hope that they would find something to help him piece everything back together.

“Dr. Banner, you should take a look at his most recent brain scan,” Friday said, cutting him off before he could say anything. “I’m seeing some very unusual activity in response to that episode.”

Banner walked over to the computer and pulled up the scan. “I think we need to get Dr. Callahan on the phone.”

As they waited for Friday to make contact, Banner was quick to assure him that they weren’t seeing anything dangerous – just highly unusual. And shocking, if Banner was reading the scan correctly.

When Dr. Callahan finally answered, she worked with Friday to set up a virtual interface so she could interact with them face to face. He watched, fascinated, as a full holographic image appeared in the middle of his room. Callahan looked so similar to before; the hair, the face, the way she held herself, even the bright intelligence burning in her eyes, were all the same. But she appeared older and the wheelchair was nowhere to be seen. If this image was an accurate representation, she could walk with no sign of injury at all.

He was Alice, he realized, and he was so far past the looking glass – the knowledge of both who Alice was and the author of her books flashing into his mind clear as day.

“This is as stable as I can make it,” Friday admitted. “The incoming data is too advanced to display properly.”

Callahan waved off her apology, her image dropping bits with the motion. “I’m playing with all the cool toys, Friday. Don’t worry about it.” She looked around the room. “Oh, this is much better.”

Her gaze fell on him. “It was good to hear you were awake, Sergeant. How are you feeling?”

His headache already fading, he said, “Confused?”

She offered him an understanding smile. “I would be concerned if you weren’t but I’m not sure I have any advice to give you other that give it time.” She rolled a chair over and sat down. “Memory loss is expected after brain trauma, I’m sure Bruce has explained that to you, but, on top of that, you’ve got seventy years to catch up on. That would throw anybody.”

“It’s really been seventy years?” He almost hoped that she would deny it and put some of his unease to rest.

Callahan nodded. “Give or take a couple, yeah.” She let the comment hang, unwilling to move on so soon from dealing such a blow, before turning to Banner. “What’s so urgent?”

Banner sent the most recent images through Friday’s connection. “What’s your take on that?”

Callahan rolled across the floor, a brief and brilliant joy flashing in her eyes, grabbed her handheld device, and scanned through the data, pursing her lips the longer she stared at it. “Is this recent?”

“Ten minutes, fifteen tops,” Banner confirmed.

She nodded, retreating into her thoughts, her digital image rising from the chair before pacing around the room. It could almost have been real but every so often she would walk through furniture and ruin the illusion. “I don’t want to make any assumptions from this. There’s something I want to check before I come up with something definitive.” She laid the device down. “Let me know if it happens again. More data always helps.”

Before she disconnected, she told him, “Don’t fight the memories when they come. They’re trying to tell you something – let them.”

Her image disappeared, and the room suddenly seemed much brighter and much larger.

“Well, that was far less helpful than I’d hoped,” Banner muttered. “Are you gonna be all right?”

Being “all right” was a matter of circumstance. He doubted he would get there today.

Banner seemed to understand, patting him on the shoulder. “I have an entire library of books if reading is more your speed. It might get your mind off things, let it reset on its own?”

He didn’t need to hear the suggestion twice.

They spent the afternoon in almost companionable silence, choosing a large stack of books and carrying them back to his room. As they dumped the books onto his bed, Friday interrupted, “Captain Rogers has made contact. Expected arrival in three hours.”


End file.
